


Yours

by ShannaraIsles



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Avvar AU, Avvar Cullen, Avvar Wedding, F/M, Fluff, Gift Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-16
Updated: 2018-02-16
Packaged: 2019-03-19 14:45:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13706634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShannaraIsles/pseuds/ShannaraIsles
Summary: An Avvar wedding may seem to lack permanence, but when Cullen Lionsbane takes a bride, she can be assured she may never want to leave his side again.





	Yours

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Star_Nymph](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Star_Nymph/gifts).



> Happy birthday to my beautiful [STAR](https://star--nymph.tumblr.com/)!

In this place, at this time, there is only him.

The joyful sound of the clan gathered all around fades into nothing more than a hum in your ears, the sense of oneness with the hold forgotten as whiskey-warm eyes, darkly bright with hopeful longing, lock with your own. Though the eyes of the hold are upon you, you see only him, tall and broad, rippling with purpose as he take his place before you.

Firelight dances over his form, illuminating the reds and browns of his fur mantle, casting the toned plane of his bared chest in flickering gold to match the shining hue of the tousled curls that crown his head and trail down into the fur at his shoulders. The twisted braids set there to tame the fall of that mane end in the glint of true gold - for you, for this night, he has twisted the precious metal into his locks, a golden god to match the soft silver that adorns your own garb. His only concession, it seems, to the solemn joy of this occasion, though he comes to you unarmed. The only weapon he needs on this night is the simple fact of his being; he is _your_ choice, you are _his_ choice, this decision you made together to make this night a reality.

Though the eyes of his clan are upon you, you only have eyes for him. Your fingers twitch, aching to touch, to skim your palms over the definition of his form; your breath catches in your throat as his mouth quirks into a lion's smirk, the faded imperfection of the scar that mars his upper lip pulling taut and tempting in the dancing glow of the bonfire that crackles so close by. The dry heat of the flames is nothing to the smouldering embers buried deep inside; embers that leap and spark each time his eyes skim your form, his tongue touches his lips, his fingers curl and stretch at his sides. He wants you and, for all his patience in past days, you know that tonight will be one you will never forget. He has promised you will never know a husband like him again. A common boast among warriors of the Avvar, but in his case ... you believe it.

The hempen rope feels rough in the clench of your fist, the knots you tied so carefully this morning the only barrier now between your quiet hope and the reality standing before you. There were no visions to guide you in the tying, no warnings from Rilla or the Lady to impede this ceremony from becoming a true commitment. Your gaze falls to his fingers - thick, long, strong. Are they nimble enough to untie your knots while you sing of Rilla and her gifts? Will your voice falter to see his dexterity brought to bear before your eyes?

You swallow, trying not to think too long on those fingers, those hands, that form, forcing your thought to focus on everything else he is. A good man, a strong warrior, a fine hunter, a capable leader; all attributes you hoped for in the man that chose to pair with you. But you cannot deny that he is so much more than you hoped for - handsome, fierce, gentle; courteous and respectful, yet infused with a thrilling sense of danger. His is not a spirit that can be tamed, his wildness held in check by his loyalty to hold and kin. A loyalty that will soon be yours to call upon, should you ever need it.

A strong hand rises, casting shadows in the firelight; a gentle thumb touches the fullness of your lower lip as your breathing staggers, caught in his gaze, the willing prey of this longing predator. Fingers skim your chin, barely brushing the supple leather that molds to your form as his hand drops to take the knotted rope from your own unresisting grasp. And there, a single word ... a command to complete what was begun when he asked and you accepted, when you allowed him to steal you from your birth hold only two nights ago.

"Sing."

For the briefest moment, you close your eyes, drawing in a slow breath as you send a silent prayer to the gods for the fortitude to sing with strength. Your voice rises to the dark sky above, all other voices around you falling silent to watch your chosen partner determine how long he will have you for. How long you will have to utterly ruin Cullen Lionsbane for any other that might seek to lure him away from you.

Before you, those clever fingers are already at work, picking at the knots you tied just last night while offering your prayer to the Lady. You prayed for courage, strength, patience, the lessons learned from the tale of Seddra and Virmik ... courage to see you through this first step taken to becoming one with another hold, to bear the pain of renouncing the hold of your birth; strength to endure whatever might come, to stand strong and proud beside your man, united against all enemies; and patience, for love will not come instantly, and time will be your friend. The gods do not give happiness or mercy, will not gift a supplicant with love just for the asking. They are harsh, like the world around you; what is given must be earned.

One knot undone, one verse complete, the flicker of his gaze to yours as you grow in confidence. One year already, given over to sharing your life with him, and still more verses to go. A second knot, a second year, and this time his lips, so temptingly pursed with concentration, part in a wild grin as the third knot comes undone in his fingers. And there begins the challenge. 

As is the custom of your former hold, you tied only ten knots yet, in a mirror held to life, the four that make up the middle of the rope are tied tighter, harder. A shared life is not all warmth and simplicity; there is hardship and differences to overcome. One who gives up at this first challenge may enjoy their three years of beginning, but no more than that. You may have given up your former hold, but this custom is one you will hold to. No one who cannot endure the challenge of your fourth knot and beyond with grace and calm will ever have the chance to untie more at a later date.

Your gaze settles on his face, watching the play of frustration over the handsome features that first caught your eye. The grin is gone, his brow set in a fierce frown that is not angry but challenging, rising to the challenge you have set for him. His fingers work more slowly now, testing each loop of the knot that has stalled him, seeking out the coil that will allow him to loosen it and move on to the next. There is a gentleness to his ferocity, a calmness in the midst of his frustration. He growls under his breath, yet does not swear nor waste his energy in displays of impatience. He tests and he considers, and as his eyes lift to meet yours, he raises the rope to his mouth and drags the knot loose with his teeth.

Approval lightens your voice as you sing, as your smile colors your song with something torn between amusement and admiration for his method. This is not a man who will fall at the first hurdle, or give up before all paths have been walked. This is a man who looks at a problem and finds a way; a man who is prepared to try anything to achieve his goal, within reason. He did not draw a blade to slice at the knot, as you have seen others do only to have their mating called off for their disrespectful reaction to a simple problem. He found a way, and your life is bound to his for four years as the last verse of your devotion finds its way to the air from your lips.

And as the last note fades, leaving the gathering in watchful silence, Cullen raises the rope in his hand for all to see. Five knots remain of ten that were made by your hands; five years are promised as husband and wife, to rise or fall as the gods will it. The augur nods, notes the promise, the drums begin to sound once again, and you find yourself suddenly caught into the arms of your husband, no longer his captured bride but his wife by right and by choice.

His grinning lips find yours, a soft pillow that tastes, touches, takes what you offer, your own laugh forgotten in a low groan that tells him all he truly needs to know tonight. His hands, warm and confident on your back, pour over the leather that hides your form from his eyes, gathering you closer, enveloping you in the heat that radiates from him as his lips part to enrapture, ravish, to share the ravenous eagerness of a hunger that wants more than to be sated. This is his desire, sparked from the first moment of your meeting, the first warning that told you without words that to be this man's wife was the wish of a lifetime, not simply a year. No other has set you on fire like this, with barely more than a kiss; no other has ever asked to capture you so bluntly yet so gently. He may not be the first, but as you curl to him, warm to him, pour your fingers through the spun, braided gold of his hair and thrill to the wakening beast in your belly, you feel sure he must be the last.

In this place, in this time, there is only him. Cullen Lionsbane; hunter, warrior, husband ... _yours._


End file.
